Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.

Even pain pricks to livelier living.

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.